


The Question.

by shefollowedfires



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: A lot of feels, Angst and Feels, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Canon Compliant, F/M, Feels, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Season/Series 04, Smut, scar kink, so many feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2017-03-07
Packaged: 2018-09-30 08:07:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10158284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shefollowedfires/pseuds/shefollowedfires
Summary: Kane and Abby's first time together, pre-4x02; my take. Alternately: "Needs More Feels".





	

She almost lets herself walk away.

After sending her daughter into the hazy distance of a seemingly impossible future, she’s found herself fallen into orbit around him; the chaos of questions about their situation that are waiting to be answered suddenly evaporating in lieu of just one. But unlike the others - _will Roan survive? How might their bodies endure the radiation?_ \- she doesn't have the words for this one, only knows that his name fits into the inquiry somehow. So, she stays by his side, watching, waiting, puzzling together how to ask the question that stirs in her bones but won't yet dare speak itself into existence.

She follows him to his quarters - that is, what can only be called his for the evening, as Indra has graciously offered up her room in the Trikru embassy to the Skaikru Ambassador until the tower elevator is repaired and a proper suite arranged. She finds, then, that the question was decidedly not whether she would be unwelcome there. She waits for any of her steps alongside him to feel intrusive as they make their way up the stairs, down the narrow, dim hallway, and ultimately into the rustic intimacy of a room built for little more than sleeping and strategizing.

They don't.

Indra has never taken the time to decorate its greying wooden walls. The small desk under the boarded-up window is completely bare, save for a single lantern which Marcus immediately works at lighting.  The bed itself is simple wrought iron, and nearly buried beneath the only extravagance the warrior has allowed herself: a veritable mountain of thick furs layered as blankets.

It strikes her suddenly that Indra made no inquiry into where she would be sleeping. Perhaps she’d assumed that she’d join Octavia in the common quarters on the first floor. It makes sense. Right now, however, following the busy chaos of restoring order in a broken and angry city where everyone is a possible enemy, she allows herself the indulgence of a closed door, a darkened room, and him.

Her orbit begins to take literal shape as she takes a seat at the desk, him at the edge of the bed. They’re quiet for a moment, and it takes him by surprise when she suddenly laughs darkly that, right this second, it marks the first time in too long that there was nothing that direly needed them to take action.

There's a moment, then, where she feels the question almost come into clarity, holding each other's gaze in a way that makes her wonder if he feels the question, too. She can see it, fleeting and timid, in his deep brown eyes as they appear to search every line in her expression for an answer. Her skin alights with warmth, and the words begin to take shape--

He stands, tries to peer beyond her through the openings in the window, says he’s supposed to meet the other ambassadors at a courtyard on the edge of the city first thing tomorrow. He wonders if he can see it from here. She swallows back what had begun to form, and instead - asks him if he’s nervous.

“It’s historic,” he explains, still searching out the window. “The first meeting of the thirteen clans.”

“Is that a yes?”

He smiles down at her.

“It’s not a no.”

He touches her, then. It’s casual - she’s not sure he even realizes he’s done it - but with a graze of his fingertips, he brushes her bangs behind her ear. She feels her face flush.

“Are you?”

She huffs a laugh.

“I might be.”

From that point forward, she tells herself she’s content to let the orbit dictate her movement as they spend hours of the evening dancing around each other: her cross-legged on the bed while he paces the floor and outwardly takes stock of what Skaikru has to offer in the Coalition; him leaning against the desk, patiently listening while she gesticulates wildly in front of him about the differences between theirs and the Grounders’ ideas of what constitutes an antiseptic. It’s a familiar choreography, and she feels a deep relief at being able to so easily settle into it after everything. More than satisfied, however, she tells herself that she should be grateful that this vibrant, comfortably challenging discourse between them is one constant she hasn't yet lost.

But the question remains.

It bubbles forth when she reaches for his arm, allowing herself to give it a consoling squeeze as he slips into self-doubt. It spikes, almost violently, to the front of her mind when he takes that hand and kisses it before sighing and returning to his frantic pacing.

The feel of his lips against her fingers gives her two of the words: “ _can we?_ ”

She’s heard these words in her mind before.

She’d let her curiosity test them when she pressed her lips to his cheek in a gesture of what she’d grandiosely called “hope”; a broad enough term to still maintain her dignity if his answer had been “we can't.” She’d thrown that dignity out the window when it turned out that someone else was telling them they couldn't; had tried to press the words “we can, we can, we can” into his hair and shoulders and skin before he’d had the presence of mind to stop her from cementing the prayer against his lips - only to have it forever be unfulfilled.

That was not to be their fate, thankfully, but even with the potent taste of his desperate, determined kiss still imprinted on her lips, the words re-formed back into a question as she retreated into the depths of Arkadia; he, into the indefinite wild.

_Can we?_

_Can we?_

_Can we?_

The taste of all of his ferocious passion for her, white-hot and blazing through her veins like a drug, was all-too-suddenly replaced with the bitter docility of a cold plastic chip. Her voice was stolen from her, manipulated into following what might have been an honest “we can” with the crushing weight of an “if”:

_We can, if you surrender._

_We can, if you give up your cause._

_We can, if you let us win._

The question was twisted, disfigured - in no just world should it have had anything to do with anyone else but them, and certainly, it shouldn't have been poisoned - choked and blackened into a gasping half-life - by an intent to win or lose.

It shouldn't have required an outpouring of pained screams from his lungs and blood from his wrists, at the command of a woman whose voice sounded so much like hers.

She knows he’s said he’s okay. He smooths the assurance into her skin with every timid caress, every brave little smile. But she’s also seen him quickly turn away from her to hide his grimaces, having worked so hard to get her to forget his injury that it takes _him_ by surprise when he’s not able to do the simple things that he used to. He shouldn't have to hide, she thinks; he needs time to rest and face his pain.

And so, when a yawn finally overtakes her, she tells herself that this night has been complete. To talk and touch and spend time with the most familiar person in her life is more of a gift than she deserves. With sleep, she hopes, the question will either settle into silence or make itself unignorably clear. Either way, it’s better for them both that she not ask while it’s still only half-formed. She doesn’t, in all honesty, know how she’d handle a half-answer right now.

So, she almost lets herself walk away.

She excuses herself, with the usual script of “we have a long day ahead of us” and “you should get some rest”; it doesn’t escape her that he swallows down something that had been at the tip of his tongue as she rises from her seat on the bed.

She tries to ignore it.

Still, she can’t stop herself from waiting by the door to see what he’ll do. She rationalizes that she could let him walk with her down to the common quarters under the guise of protection. Trikru are allies now, yes, but it would still be too presumptuous to call them friends. She braces herself as Marcus draws near, fortifying her morale should anything less be the case.

He takes her by the shoulders, drawing gentle lines up and down her arms as if to warm them, and he smiles.

“Good night, Abby,” he offers, low and soft, in a register that she knows he reserves only for her. He leans forward to press a tender kiss against her forehead, and she accepts it. This chaste little gesture is as much of an answer as she’s going to get tonight.

But then, as he draws away, his expression changes.

She’s momentarily ridden with confusion at the furrowed brow that looks down at her with intensity now; that is, until she realizes – with some dismay – that she has tears in her eyes.

“Abby?” he questions, instinctively raising a hand to her cheek, his thumb brushing away the first of the fallen salt-water droplets; and somehow the kind gesture makes it hurt more. She tries to wrestle out a smile for him, works against herself to try and produce even a feeble “I’m fine”. Her voice fails her, though, her mouth futilely shaping words that won’t come; so she presses her lips together and exhales, finally discarding the charades in lieu of something as raw and honest as he deserves.

She looks up at him, and she feels… helpless.

He sees it.

She can almost feel the tremors of ache that ripple out as his heart fractures before her, and he exhales a long breath that seems to come from his very bones. He brushes a few wayward strands out of her face, and she lets her gaze drop towards his frowning lips; keeps it there. He takes the hint, steadying himself with a flicker of uncertainty that needles at her heart for the short moment it takes to tilt her chin up and lean in.

He kisses her.

It’s the first time she’s truly tasted his mouth against hers - without the haze of artificial intelligence to numb her against it - since he made his escape from Pike’s death sentence. He’s tempering his passion, now, though; where once teeth collided and the press of his lips nearly bruised hers, now he merely skirts the lines of her lips with his, moves against her only so far as to remind her of the surprising plushness of his bottom lip. All the same, he tastes like salt and earth, and she’s forgotten how hungry she was for him.

She raises a hand to the back of his neck to draw him closer, and decidedly captures his mouth with an urgency that she finds she’s no longer willing to suppress.

Six months. That’s all they have.

_Ah. There it is._

The rest of the question finally formulates, glaring and relentless in her mind as if it had been this obvious the whole time. She pulls away, but only just – rests her forehead against his as they catch their breath.

“Marcus…” she breathes. His eyes dart upward nervously to meet hers, no doubt already preparing an apology.

“Hm?”

She takes his face confidently in her hands to reassure him, then pulls away enough to level him with a steady, decisive stare. “Listen to me. We don’t - we don't have time to be scared… of this.”

On the last two words, she pulls a hand down from his cheek, along the curve of his neck, down to the centre of his chest.

“I’m ready,” she announces quietly, feeling his heart accelerate under her hand.

“For what?” he asks, a bit dumbly, eyes frantically scanning her for clues. It’s precious and a little bit sad and she can’t help a small laugh.

“You,” she answers. She raises her other hand to his jaw, pensively entangling the tips of her fingers into the coarse strands of his beard. “I’m ready to love you, Marcus Kane, if you’ll let me.”

It’s like she’s knocked the air out of his lungs.

“Abby…”

“Can we do that?” she pleads, and readies herself to finally invoke the words that have been sleeping under her skin and haunting her lungs since they crept there, under the shadow of some unknowable night, however many months ago. Her voice nearly trembles under the weight of them:

“Can we let ourselves love each other?”

He’s stunned; has to take a moment to blink away his reverie. But it’s not just his reverie that falls away - she watches as his face suddenly opens up with bright warmth, his entire posture loosening to welcome her in. And then suddenly, she’s in his arms, and it’s not just passion he’s pouring into her, fiery and devastating, but the earthen foundation of a promise.

They breathe each other in deeply as they clamor to find new ways to get closer and closer, knotting fingers clumsily into hair, grasping to pull each other as tight against themselves as they physically can while still clothed. She feels his tongue edge into her mouth briefly, almost by accident, and she alights with some new kind of fire that burns so deeply her entire body feels like iron in a forge.

She hadn't even meant it like _this_ \- not really. But the time for being careful and coy is gone, and she feels it in every cell in her body that it’s now the time to celebrate him, to revel in him, to welcome him into the exquisite messiness of a shared life. It’s time that they stopped being separate beings and instead tangled themselves irreparably into one.

With the slightest suggestion, her small body pressing just a little more forcefully against his, he takes the hint, and they begin making their way back towards the bed with eyes closed and lips still crushed against each other. Once the back of his knees connect with the mattress, however, they finally break apart, and he takes a seat on the edge while she stands herself between his legs. His hands never break contact, studiously tracing every muscle in her shoulders and arms through her shirt as she stands before him - not quite bold enough yet to venture to more central places. But she’s never seen his eyes so black as he takes her in; desire burnishing their already deep warmth into depths beyond whatever Earth’s ancient oceans might boast. She feels powerful and a little foolishly proud - like Aphrodite, she thinks with a laugh - as she watches him catalogue every last inch of her, preparing himself for what comes next.   
  
He swallows, suddenly, and she feels a sharp pang of panic as his desire is dispelled to make way for concern. She follows his gaze, and finds that it’s come to rest just below her throat, where a silver ring gleams in the lamplight from its home on a tarnished chain. He brings a hand up towards it, intently turning the circular band between his thumb and forefinger.

“Are you sure?” he asks, eyes never leaving the memento in his hand. “We don’t have to do this.”  
  
She takes his hand into hers, closes their combined fingers around the ring as she considers it.   
  
She finds, with some surprise, that she’s almost embarrassed by it in this particular moment - even though it’s been and still is a source of immense pride for her: Jake taught her how to love and be loved. In twenty years of marriage, she’d done her part, certainly; but he was the one who relentlessly challenged her, guarding her integrity as she came to be more and more seduced by the pragmatism of the council. He’d known, better than she did, that if that integrity were ever lost, she would never forgive herself. Inevitably, that day came - and impossibly, he was there, the victim of her greatest sin, offering her his forgiveness like the lifeline it was.   
  
That ring saved Abby.   
  
But Marcus wasn’t there. He doesn’t have the memory of Jake Griffin’s supernatural grace to call upon. So, he carries his sins like Atlas, weary but dutiful - and when he looks at that ring, all of that weight bears down on him with full force, as though he were killing her husband again and again. It had been her who’d put the blame on him, yes, although she knew now he didn’t need the help in doing so; but the truth was that there was very little difference between his pressing charges and her informing the Chancellor. Had their roles been switched, she couldn’t, in all honesty, say she would have done otherwise.   
  
He deserves to be given what Jake had given her.                
  
So she smiles, cups his jaw to steer his gaze back up towards hers.   
  
“It’s already done, Marcus.”   
  
She draws him into a kiss that, she hopes, fills him with all of her purifying faith in who he is now; who _they_ are now. She gently peels his fingers away from the ring as they part, holding his slightly terrified gaze as she reaches back to undo the chain’s clasp.   
  
It’s as she reaches to hang the necklace over one of the bars of the bed that she suddenly feels the air against her newly-bared throat, and an imperceptible shiver overtakes her as it registers what, exactly, they’re about to do.   
  
They’ve never been anything more than this to each other - he in his jacket and boots, her in her jeans and shirt. They’re the things that make them recognizable to each other. As soon as those things come off, they’ll become something entirely new, like being born again. With a thrill of both fear and excitement at that, she inhales, takes the leap into the unknown; and sets her trembling fingers to work at the bottom of her henley and tank, slowly lifting them over her head.   

 _If he’s going to love you, he needs to see you._   
  
And he does.   
  
She knows she doesn’t have the lithe, youthful body she once did. Her skin is dappled by age spots and the freckles that accompany them; its elasticity slowly diminishing, leaving wrinkles and creases in its wake. She remembers the bloom of green and purple bruising around her neck. She sees how her skin gathers at her shoulders as she finally pulls the shirts completely off - but Marcus leaves no room for her to be embarrassed by any of it. His eyes have succumbed to dark desire once more, and she can feel how hot his gaze is as it rakes over her skin.   
  
Almost as if hypnotized, his fingertips seem to float towards her waist, landing with hesitant gentleness as he feels the soft warmth of her bare skin for the first time. He’s mesmerized, drawing light, goosebump-inducing lines along her sides, his thumbs moving to graze the subtle slope of her abdomen.   
  
She takes advantage of his preoccupation, sliding her hands beneath the collar of his jacket to remove it. She’s deliberately slow  as she feels the powerful muscles of his shoulders under her fingers, twitching slightly at her touch. He removes his hands from her waist momentarily to shrug the jacket off, and she trails her fingers down the soft cotton of the grey shirt sleeves left behind.   
  
He looks up at her as he moves his hands to remove his own shirt. here’s an edge of mild anxiety to his wide eyes that cracks her heart, so she takes his hands into hers to still them.     
  
“It’s okay,” she whispers, and brushes his hands away as she leans in close. He watches as she veers coyly away from his lips, instead laying a trail of slow, soft kisses along his bearded jaw. When she reaches his ear, she tugs at the lobe gently with her teeth and presses an open-mouthed kiss to the hidden, sensitive little spot of skin behind it where neck meets jaw. He exhales, his voice shaping the breath into a groan that takes him by surprise-   
  
-almost as much as the feel of her hands under his shirt, working their way upward to remove it.   
  
Good. The distraction worked.   
  
He allows her to pull his shirt over his head, discarding it carelessly to some corner of the room, and then it’s her turn to be mesmerized.         
  
Her hands fall towards the centre of his chest, where a faint whisper of dark hair has grown amid the valleys of fine muscle he’s built since landing on the ground. She doesn’t remember his skin ever being this rich in colour; she finds that her mind somehow tricked her into believing that perhaps beneath his clothing, the paleness induced by decades of only absorbing fluorescent light would still remain. It’s shocking, almost, to see how thoroughly golden he’s become - truly, there isn’t a single part of him that resembles the man he once was. He is utterly transformed. This is a man who no longer lives by the cold mystery of the moon, but the warmth and radiance of the sun.   
  
Then, suddenly, his arms are around her, and his hands have travelled up her spine to settle at the clasp of her bra.   
  
“Can I?” he asks.   
  
She nods.   
  
She holds her breath.   
  
The clasp falls open, and he brings the straps down along her arms with care, dutifully placing the black contraption on the floor before he even allows himself to look. He smiles, then, shaking his head incredulously.   
  
“God, you’re beautiful.”   
  
She smirks.   
  
“I like to think the rest of me is alright, too,” she teases, earning a wry glare.   
  
“You might have to show me,” he challenges, a devilish twinkle dancing across his eyes as he seems to browse for the place his hands get to explore next.

She cards her fingers through his hair, tilting his head back up towards her.

“Why do I have to do all the work - _Chancellor?”_   
  
She has to bite her lip to prevent from grinning completely as the quip, paired with her most enterprising, sauciest glare, immediately produces its intended effect: the dam finally breaks.

The time for modesty has gone, replaced, instead, with an all-consuming hunger that devours them just as completely as they then strive to devour each other. He stands just enough to grip her around the waist and throws her, a little too effortlessly, onto the bed, bouncing a little as she lands.Then he’s on top of her, and his hands are everywhere, and his lips are everywhere, and she _can’t get enough._   
_  
_ His broad, masculine hands massage her full breasts in a manner that’s almost forceful as, simultaneously, their mouths crush against each other with _absolutely_ no pretenses of elegance. It’s raw and eager and god, she feels like she’s been set on fire as she darts her tongue into his mouth and finds his own ready and willing to wrestle powerfully for dominance.

The blaze concentrates below her stomach as suddenly his calloused fingers are working at the button of her jeans, and she whines a little when his lips leave hers so that he can shuffle down and better work at peeling off her pants. Sighing with impatience, she lazily kicks off her boots to help the process along. Marcus grunts with frustration as he yanks at the tight material, and she can't help a chuckle. He quirks a bemused eyebrow at her.

“You weren’t kidding about the work.”

“Wouldn't be worth it any other way,” she counters playfully; but the radiant, affectionate grin it earns her tells her its double-meaning hasn’t escaped him.

They deserve this.

Finally finding success, worn and withered jeans tossed with victorious aplomb across the room, Marcus kicks off his own boots before eagerly climbing back toward where he can feed his new addiction to her mouth.  
  
She gasps as she suddenly feels him pressing against her thigh, hard and hot even through the thick fabric-

She doesn’t mean to flinch, but she does, and he feels it; so he pulls away.   
  
“Are you alright?”   
  
She nods; but it doesn’t quite feel honest.   
  
The truth is as follows: Jake was the only man she’d ever been with.   
  
The shape of Marcus’ body is broader, a bit softer than Jake’s, and the weight of it sinks against hers in a heavier way than Jake’s did. It even radiates a different kind of heat. She’s not surprised that the two men are different - and maybe it’s just that its been so long, but this…   
  
“It’s just new,” she manages between breaths. “Different.”   
  
Hovering over her, resting his weight on his hands - she cringes as she remembers the bandages, the pain he must be working to hide - he nods, and seems to understand.   
  
“It’s still not too late, Abby.”   
  
“No,” she sighs, almost laughs. Her  hand weaves its way around his neck to toy with the ends of his sweat-damp hair. “I want this. I want _you_ .”   
  
She draws both of her hands down his shoulders, along his arms, and down to his bandages.   
  
“Now, lay back,” she instructs as he blushes at the reminder of his injury. And then, with a smirk: “Doctor’s orders.”   
  
He’s momentarily confused, but readily obeys as she pushes against his shoulders to roll their bodies so that she’s on top of him. She plies him with a firm, deep kiss as she straddles his waist, and feels his hands wander up the outsides of her thighs to her ass. They’re so close to where she really wants them to be, but this is not the time for that - so she begins making her descent southward, trailing lingering kisses down his throat, into his clavicle. She sits up to take him in as he watches her with a potent mix of curiosity and anticipation.   
  
He’s a marked man. He carries his history on his skin like a map, and she traces her finger tips reverently from one point to another - a faint cloud of violet sprawling out from his stomach, a glaring, fresh slash of red at his shoulder - before gently gathering his left arm away from her ass and into her hands. He flinches away from her a little at the touch, and she quickly shushes him.   
  
“Let me,” she urges, and watches his shoulders reluctantly relax back into the fur blankets.   
  
She turns his hand thoughtfully between hers, tracing a fingertip along his palm where there’s still a hint of pearlescent, bubbled scar tissue. She leans in to press a chaste kiss against the burn, and he stretches his fingers out to try to caress her face as she does so; but she’s not done.   
  
“This is who I want,” she breathes, before lifting his hand so she can place a kiss against his bandaged wrist. The material is rough compared to his skin, and it smells like old blood, but she presses her cheek to it, holding it close.  “ _This_ is who I want.”   
  
She frowns as her hands fall a little further down his arm, to where a long, white scar divides his forearm lengthwise in two.   
  
“This,” she begins, her tone darkening with a warning that makes him blush, “is who you don’t have to be anymore. Because _this_ …”   
  
She suddenly draws a long trail from his left forearm, across his chest, and down to the middle of his right forearm, landing on a smooth, shining circle of iron-branded skin. She softens her voice.   
  
“This is who you will always be to me.”        
  
She only just has time to catch a glimpse of the glisten that’s formed in his eyes before suddenly he’s rising up to meet her and nearly knocks the wind out of her with a powerful kiss. One of his hands, now released from her grasp, is tangled into her hair, cradling the back of her head as he thoroughly devours her. The other has made its way back down her spine to below her waist, teasing at the seam of her underwear.   
  
She’s ready. If she weren’t already aware, the thin, soaked material between where she aches for him most and where he’s still, somehow, bound by the heavy fabric of his pants has made it undeniably clear that _it’s time_ . So she reaches between them and determinedly sets about removing those final barriers, eliciting a sharp hiss from his lips as her fingers, nimble and quick in undoing the closure, graze the curve of his throbbing cock. His own hands make quick work of hooking under her panties and sliding them down her ass, and they’re so close - _so close_ \- that they forego all delicacy. It’s a clumsy choreography, and they both land accidental kicks against the other in the process, but then finally the pants are gone, the underwear is gone - and they’re free.   
  
She was right about being born again. Marcus, naked, is a whole other creature from Marcus with all of his clothes, all of his armor on. But it’s not weakness or fragility that radiates from him as he lays back once more, the muscles in his arms rippling hypnotically beneath his skin. With nothing else to distract or shield, as raw and unadulterated as she believes anyone has ever seen him, Marcus Kane is courage - is strength - is kindness - is hope.   
  
She loves him in a way she never thought she could, again. She loves him in a way that’s completely new and  exclusively his to claim.   
  
So she holds his gaze decisively as she straddles him, fighting against the blur in her vision that’s rapidly accumulating because she wants to _see_ him when it happens - and then she begins to lower herself down.   
  
She’s excruciatingly tentative at first, giving her body a chance to reclaim the memory of that particular kind of pressure, and then her muscles obediently loosen, and he’s inside her.   
  
They both let out a long, shuddering breath, as though they’ve been holding it in for years. He doesn’t feel like Jake, but he _does_ feel exquisitely like Marcus, and that’s more than enough for her. This is where she wants to spend the rest of her fleeting life, she thinks, as she begins slowly rolling her hips rhythmically in-tune with his exploratory thrusts; she wants to forever be this indivisible tandem force that they’ve grown to become in every other part of their lives and now have finally actualized on a tangible level. It feels like they’ve reached the summit of their growth towards each other, and can now see the endless miles of bright future that surround them. That belongs to them.   
  
It wouldn’t take much for that delusion to be dispelled - merely a casual glance outside the window would remind them that so little actually belongs to them, least of all the future. But their eyes stay on each other, and it’s here, revelling in this incredible thing between them that they’ve cultivated, that it begins to feel like maybe if they ask, if they work, if they fight for it - the impossible might just be possible after all.   
  
So they let themselves go, and they let themselves give in.   
  
She tries to steady herself by gripping the bars of the bed as she rides him, but she feels her muscles giving in to the mollifying warmth of pleasure as it blooms rapidly throughout her body; she’s too conquered by it to protest with any effectiveness when Marcus suddenly rolls them so that he’s once again on top.   
  
“Marcus!” is all she manages through stuttered breaths; but she’s already pinned, and the blankets are so welcoming, and he is so magnificent when he’s looking down at her like _that_.   
  
His thrusts gain speed, albeit a more irregular rhythm, and he has to bury his face in her neck to try to muffle his rasping groans. The silken sandpaper feel of his beard on that sensitive swath of skin, combined with the gasping, deliciously masculine sounds of a completely uninhibited Marcus Kane, is almost enough to send her over the edge.

Then she feels a hand wander along her side, down towards her stomach, and further between them still, until-  
  
“ _Oh.”_   
  
His fingers find the little rosebud of nerves at her clit and begin rubbing tight, frantic little circles into it; and suddenly Abby is almost blinded by stars. She hears his voice, then - a hot flutter of warmth close against her ear in a register so low that it seems to send vibrations right down to where his hand is skilfully at work:   
  
“I’m close, Abby. God, I’m so close,” he mutters, and she can feel the truth of it in how tight his muscles are against her. And then, barely a whisper: “Come with me?”   
  
“Please,” she gasps, and wraps her legs around his waist to allow him deeper access. He drives into her, nearly bottoming out, and her fingernails almost break skin as she clings tightly to his shoulders.   
  
She can hear herself cry out as he thrusts once, twice, maybe three more times, his fingers never failing in their ministrations, and it almost doesn’t sound like her. Her gasps are high and girlish, in harmony with his low, gravelly grunts as their orgasms rise and begin to overtake them. She feels that heavy tightness begin in her stomach and begin to spread all the way out to her toes. Everything goes white, and she can feel the rush of him cumming inside her, and - his name is the last thing she’s able to shape her gasps into before she finally shudders with an all-consuming wave of release.   
  
He collapses into her.   
  
He’s all salt and sweat, and the heat radiating from his body into hers is almost suffocating as he catches his breath. She’s content to keep him here like this a little while longer, so she cradles him into her arms, gently stroking his hair as he comes down.     
  
When he’s finally coherent enough, he gently removes himself, velvet softness where once there had been red-hot iron, from inside her, and rolls over to lay next to her.   
  
He’s smirking, almost laughing to himself, and she eyes him curiously through her daze.   
  
“What?”   
  
There’s a twinkle in his eyes as he rests on his elbow to face her. He affectionately brushes a sweat-slicked strand of hair away from her forehead, lets her silent curiosity rise almost to the point of frustration - she’s all but pouting before he finally responds, softly, with an infuriatingly impish little smile:   
  
“Does that answer your question?”   



End file.
